‘I have not been well, my lord.’
Girolamo linked his arm in Checco’s.
‘Come, come,’ he said, ‘you must not be angry because I used sharp words to you the other day. You know I am hot-tempered.’
‘You have a right to say what you please.’
‘Oh, no; I have only a right to say pleasant things.’
He smiled, but all the time the mobile eyes were shifting here and there, scrutinising Checco’s face, giving occasional quick glances to me and Matteo. He went on, —
‘You must show a forgiving spirit.’ Then, to Matteo, ‘We must all be good Christians if we can, eh, Matteo?’
‘Of course!’
‘And yet your cousin bears malice.’
‘No, my lord,’ said Checco. ‘I am afraid I was too outspoken.’
‘Well, if you were, I have forgiven you, and you must forgive me. But we will not talk of that. My children have been asking for you. It is strange that this ferocious creature, who tells me I am the worst among bad men, should be so adored by my children. Your little godson is always crying for you.’
‘Dear child!’ said Checco.
‘Come and see them now. There is no time like the present.’
Matteo and I looked at one another. Was all this an attempt to get him in his hand, and this time not to let him go?
‘I must pray you to excuse me, for I have some gentlemen coming to dine with me to-day, and I fear I shall be late already.’
Girolamo gave us a rapid look, and evidently saw in our eyes something of our thoughts, for he said good-humouredly, —
‘You never will do anything for me, Checco. But I won’t keep you; I respect the duties of hospitality. However, another day you must come.’
He warmly pressed Checco’s hand, and, nodding to Matteo and me, left us.
The crowd had not been able to hear what was said, but they had seen the cordiality, and as soon as Girolamo disappeared behind the Palace doors, broke out into murmurs of derision. The Christian sentiment clearly gained little belief from them, and they put down the Count’s act to fear. It was clear, they said, that he found Checco too strong for him, and dared nothing. It was a discovery that the man they had so feared was willing to turn the other cheek when the one was smitten, and to all their former hate they added a new hate that he had caused them terror without being terrible. They hated him now for their own pusillanimity. The mocking songs gained force, and Girolamo began to be known as Cornuto, the Man of Horns.
Borne on this wave of contempt came another incident, which again showed the Count’s weakness. On the Sunday following his meeting with Checco, it was known that Girolamo meant to hear mass at the church of San Stefano, and Jacopo Ronchi, commander of a troop, stationed himself, with two other soldiers, to await him. When the Count appeared, accompanied by his wife and children and his suite, Jacopo pressed forward and, throwing himself on his knees, presented a petition, in which he asked for the arrears of pay of himself and his fellows. The Count took it without speaking, and pursued his way. Then Jacopo took hold of his legs to stop him, and said, —
‘For Heaven’s sake, my lord, give me a hearing. I and these others have received nothing for months, and we are starving.’
‘Let me go,’ said the Count, ‘your claim shall be attended to.’
‘Do not dismiss me, my lord. I have presented three petitions before, and to none of them have you paid attention. Now I am getting desperate, and can wait no longer. Look at my tattered clothes. Give me my money!’
‘Let me go, I tell you,’ said Girolamo, furiously, and he gave him a sweeping blow, so that the man fell on his back to the ground. ‘How dare you come and insult me here in the public place! By God! I cannot keep my patience much longer.’
He brought out these words with such violence of passion that it seemed as if in them exploded the anger which had been gathering up through this time of humiliation. Then, turning furiously on the people, he almost screamed, —
‘Make way!’
They dared not face his anger, and with white faces, shrunk back, leaving a path for him and his party to walk through.
XII
I LOOKED at these events as I might have looked at a comedy of Plautus; it was very amusing, but perhaps a little vulgar. I was wrapped up in my own happiness, and I had forgotten Nemesis.
One day, perhaps two months from my arrival in Forli, I heard Checco tell his cousin that a certain Giorgio dall’ Aste had returned. I paid no particular attention to the remark; but later, when I was alone with Matteo, it occurred to me that I had not heard before of this person. I did not know that Giulia had relations on her husband’s side. I asked, —
‘By the way, who is that Giorgio dall’ Aste, of whom Checco was speaking?’
‘A cousin of Donna Giulia’s late husband.’
‘I have never heard him spoken of before.’
‘Haven’t you? He enjoys quite a peculiar reputation, as being the only lover that the virtuous Giulia has kept for more than ten days.’
‘Another of your old wives’ tales, Matteo! Nature intended you for a begging friar.’
‘I have often thought I have missed my vocation. With my brilliant gift for telling lies in a truthful manner, I should have made my way in the Church to the highest dignities. Whereas, certain antiquated notions of honour having been instilled into me during my training as a soldier, my gifts are lost; with the result, that when I tell the truth people think I am lying. But this is solemn truth!’
‘All your stories are!’ I jeered.
‘Ask anyone. This has been going on for years. When Giulia was married by old Tommaso, whom she had never seen in her life before the betrothal, the first thing she did was to fall in love with Giorgio. He fell in love with her, but being a fairly honest sort of man, he had some scruples about committing adultery with his cousin’s wife, especially as he lived on his cousin’s money. However, when a woman is vicious, a man’s scruples soon go to the devil. If Adam couldn’t refuse the apple, you can’t expect us poor fallen creatures to do so either. The result was that Joseph did not run away from Potiphar’s wife so fast as to prevent her from catching him.’
‘How biblical you are.’
‘Yes,’ answered Matteo; ‘I’m making love to a parson’s mistress, and I am cultivating the style which I find she is used to.... But, however, Giorgio, being youthful, after a short while began to have prickings of conscience, and went away from Forli. Giulia was heart-broken, and her grief was so great that she must have half the town to console her. Then Giorgio’s conscience calmed down, and he came back, and Giulia threw over all her lovers.’
‘I don’t believe a single word you say.’
‘On my honour, it’s true.’
‘On the face of it, the story is false. If she really loves him, why do they not keep together now that there is no hindrance?’
‘Because Giulia has the heart of a strumpet and can’t be faithful to any one man. She’s very fond of him, but they quarrel, and she takes a sudden fancy for somebody else, and for a while they won’t see one another. But there seems some magical charm between them, for sooner or later they always come back to one another. I believe, if they were at the ends of the world, eventually they would be drawn together, even if they struggled with all their might against it. And, I promise you, Giorgio has struggled; he tries to part with her for good and all, and each time they separate he vows it shall be for ever. But there is an invisible chain and it always brings him back.’
I stood looking at him in silence. Strange, horrible thoughts passed through my head and I could not drive them away. I tried to speak quite calmly.
‘And how is it when they are together?’
‘All sunshine and storm, but as time goes on the storm gets longer and blacker; and then Giorgio goes away.’
‘But, good God! man, how do you know?’ I cried in agony.
He shrugged his shoulders.
‘They quarrel?’ I
asked.
‘Furiously! He feels himself imprisoned against his will, with the door open to escape, but not the strength to do it; and she is angry that he should love her thus, trying not to love her. It rather seems to me that it explains her own excesses; her other loves are partly to show him how much she is loved, and to persuade herself that she is lovable.’
I did not believe it. Oh, no, I swear I did not believe it, yet I was frightened, horribly frightened; but I would not believe a single word of it.
‘Listen, Matteo,’ I said. ‘You believe badly of Giulia; but you do not know her. I swear to you that she is good and pure, whatever she may have been in the past; and I do not believe a word of these scandals. I am sure that now she is as true and faithful as she is beautiful.’
Matteo looked at me for a moment.
‘Are you her lover?’ he asked.
‘Yes!’
Matteo opened his mouth as if about to speak, then stopped, and after a moment’s hesitation turned away.
That evening I went to Giulia. I found her lying full length on a divan, her head sunken in soft cushions. She was immersed in reverie. I wondered whether she was thinking of me, and I went up to her silently, and, bending over her, lightly kissed her lips. She gave a cry, and a frown darkened her eyes.
‘You frightened me!’
‘I am sorry,’ I answered humbly. ‘I wanted to surprise you.’
She did not answer, but raised her eyebrows, slightly shrugging her shoulders. I wondered whether something had arisen to vex her. I knew she had a quick temper, but I did not mind it; a cross word was so soon followed by a look of repentance and a word of love. I passed my hand over her beautiful soft hair. The frown came again, and she turned her head away.
‘Giulia,’ I said, ‘what is it?’ I took her hand; she withdrew it immediately.
‘Nothing,’ she answered.
‘Why do you turn away from me and withdraw your hand?’
‘Why should I not turn away from you and withdraw my hand?’
‘Don’t you love me, Giulia?’
She gave a sigh, and pretended to look bored. I looked at her, pained at heart and wondering.
‘Giulia, my dear, tell me what it is. You are making me very unhappy.’
‘Oh, don’t I tell you, nothing, nothing, nothing!’
‘Why are you cross?’
I put my face to her’s, and my arms round her neck. She disengaged herself impatiently.
‘You refuse my kisses, Giulia!’
She made another gesture of annoyance.
‘Giulia, don’t you love me?’ My heart was beginning to sink, and I remembered what I had heard from Matteo. Oh, God! could it be true?...
‘Yes, of course I love you, but sometimes I must be left in peace.’
‘You have only to say the word, and I will go away altogether.’
‘I don’t want you to do that, but we shall like one another much better if we don’t see too much of one another.’
‘When one is in love, really and truly, one does not think of such wise precautions.’
‘And you are here so often that I am afraid of my good name.’
‘You need have no fear about your character,’ I answered bitterly. ‘One more scandal will not make much difference.’
‘You need not insult me!’
I could not be angry with her, I loved her too much, and the words I had said hurt me ten times more than they hurt her. I fell on my knees by her side and took hold of her arms.
‘Oh, Giulia, Giulia, forgive me! I don’t mean to say anything to wound you. But, for God’s sake! don’t be so cold. I love you, I love you. Be good to me.’
‘I think I have been good to you.... After all, it is not such a very grave matter. I have not taken things more seriously than you.’
‘What do you mean?’ I cried, aghast.
She shrugged her shoulders.
‘I suppose you found me a pretty woman, and thought you could occupy a few spare moments with a pleasant amour. You can hardly have expected me to be influenced by sentiments very different from your own.’
‘You mean you do not love me?’
‘I love you as much as you love me. I don’t suppose either you are Lancelot, or I Guinevere.’
I still knelt at her side in silence, and my head felt as if the vessels in it were bursting....
‘You know,’ she went on quite calmly, ‘one cannot love for ever.’
‘But I love you, Giulia; I love you with all my heart and soul! I have had loves picked up for the opportunity’s sake, or for pure idleness; but my love for you is different. I swear to you it is a matter of my whole life.’
‘That has been said to me so often....’
I was beginning to be overwhelmed.
‘But do you mean that it is all finished? Do you mean that you won’t have anything more to do with me!’
‘I don’t say I won’t have anything more to do with you.’
‘But love? It is love I want.’
She shrugged her shoulders.
‘But why not?’ I said despairingly. ‘Why have you given it me at all if you want to take it away?’
‘One is not master of one’s love. It comes and goes.’
‘Don’t you love me at all?’
‘No!’
‘Oh, God! But why do you tell me this to-day?’
‘I had to tell you some time.’
‘But why not yesterday, or the day before? Why to-day particularly?’
She did not answer.
‘Is it because Giorgio dall’ Aste has just returned?’
She started up and her eyes flashed.
‘What have they been telling you about him?’
‘Has he been here to-day? Were you thinking of him when I came? Were you languorous from his embraces?’
‘How dare you!’
‘The only lover to whom you have been faithful, more or less!’
‘You vowed you did not believe the scandals about me, and now, when I refuse you the smallest thing, you are ready to believe every word. What a love is this! I thought I had heard you talk so often of boundless confidence.’
‘I believe every word I have heard against you. I believe you are a harlot.’
She had raised herself from her couch, and we were standing face to face.
‘Do you want money? Look! I have as good money as another. I will pay you for your love; here, take it.’
I took gold pieces from my pocket and flung them at her feet.
‘Ah,’ she cried in indignation, ‘you cur! Go, go!’
She pointed to the door. Then I felt a sudden revulsion. I fell on my knees and seized her hands.
‘Oh, forgive me, Giulia. I don’t know what I am saying; I am mad. But don’t rob me of your love; it is the only thing I have to live for. For God’s sake, forgive me! Oh, Giulia, I love you, I love you. I can’t live without you.’ The tears broke from my eyes. I could not stop them.
‘Leave me! leave me!’
I was ashamed of my abjectness; I rose up indignant.
‘Oh, you are quite heartless. You have no right to treat me so. You were not obliged to give me your love; but when once you have given it you cannot take it away. No one has the right to make another unhappy as you make me. You are a bad, evil woman. I hate you!’
I stood over her with clenched fists. She shrank back, afraid.
‘Don’t be frightened,’ I said; ‘I won’t touch you. I hate you too much.’
Then I turned to the crucifix, and lifted my hands.
‘Oh, God! I pray you, let this woman be treated as she has treated me.’ And to her,’I hope to God you are as unhappy as I am. And I hope the unhappiness will come soon — you harlot!’
I left her, and in my rage slammed the door, so that the lock shattered behind me.
XIII
I WALKED through the streets like a man who has received sentence of death. My brain was whirling, and sometimes I stopped and pressed my head wi
th both hands to relieve the insupportable pressure. I could not realise what had happened; I only knew it was terrible. I felt as if I were going mad; I could have killed myself. At last, getting home, I threw myself on my bed and tried to gather myself together. I cried out against that woman. I wished I had my fingers curling round her soft white throat, that I could strangle the life out of her. Oh, I hated her!
At last I fell asleep, and in that sweet forgetfulness enjoyed a little peace. When I woke I lay still for a moment without remembering what had happened; then suddenly it came back to me, and the blood flushed to my face as I thought of how I had humiliated myself to her. She must be as hard as stone, I said to myself, to see my misery and not take pity on me. She saw my tears and was not moved one jot. All the time I had been praying and beseeching, she had been as calm as a marble figure. She must have seen my agony and the passion of my love, and yet she was absolutely, absolutely indifferent. Oh, I despised her! I had known even when I adored her madly that it was only my love which gave her the qualities I worshipped. I had seen she was ignorant and foolish, and commonplace and vicious; but I did not care as long as I loved her and could have her love in return. But when I thought of her so horribly heartless, so uncaring to my unhappiness, I did more than hate her — I utterly despised her. I despised myself for having loved her. I despised myself for loving her still....
I got up and went about my day’s duties, trying to forget myself in their performance. But still I brooded over my misery, and in my heart I cursed the woman. It was Nemesis, always Nemesis! In my folly I had forgotten her; and yet I should have remembered that through my life all happiness had been followed by all misery.... I had tried to ward off the evil by sacrifice; I had rejoiced at the harm which befell me, but the very rejoicing seemed to render the hurt of no avail, and with the inevitableness of fate, Nemesis had come and thrown me back into the old unhappiness. But of late I had forgotten. What was Nemesis to me now when I thought my happiness so great that it could not help but last? It was so robust and strong that I never thought of its cessation. I did not even think the Gods were good to me at last. I had forgotten the Gods; I thought of nothing but love and Giulia.
Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated) Page 19